Chapter One #2
So obvious. He’d guessed correctly that she would put in a fantasy man.
Easier to bond with, right? With their brainwaves in sync and the controls at his end, her mind was ready for his stimulation.
How the hell did she miss that happening to her?
She’d been trained to catch these little things and he’d outwitted her.
He’d even called himself Hades, the ultimate seducer to the dark side, and had played the part to her captive Persephone to perfection.
“It’s always the obvious.” Helen scowled, wagging her finger at the image of the blond man on the screen.
She wanted to yell at someone right now but her damn trainer was a digital avatar, a naked male with the sculpted and perfect body, the kind she made up in her fantasies.
Her scowl deepened. “I haven’t had a serious relationship while I’ve been training.
Two freaking years. No time. What did I do?
Created a fantasy man and gave him the vehicle to seduce me. Brilliant move, Helen, just brilliant.”
She’d thought it was hilarious fun to walk around in virtual reality with a deliciously sexy naked man. Why not? What could be more ridiculous than her remote viewing with a man resembling a Greek god?
She sighed, resting her chin on her hand as she kept staring at the perfect body in the screen. “Well, they don’t call me Hell for nothing. Of course I have to up the ridiculous factor,” she murmured. “I now get horny when my avatar wants me to.”
If she weren’t so pissed, she would laugh at the analysis. Something had happened to her during the mission. The serum she’d taken had an unexpected side effect. She needed to go over what happened as objectively as possible.
“From insensitive to pain to super-sensitive to touch,” she muttered. Try super-super-super sensitive. She had avoided contact with anyone, managing to fall asleep finally, but somehow, in her sleep, connected to his brainwaves, she had invaded Hades’ dream or vice-versa.
She shook her head. Didn’t matter now. Whatever happened, he’d woken up knowing exactly what she was going through and had come for her. Super-super-super sensitive became super-super-super sensual. Helen shook her head harder. Objectivity-smojectivity.
“It’s just sex,” she told herself.
Yeah. With her avatar, her fantasy man. Only he’d come in human form that night, finally appearing to her in darkness. And boy, he didn’t diminish her fantasy one bit with his sexual repertoire. The man knew how to touch a woman.
She reached out for the computer mouse. There was something wrong with her fantasy avatar. She just knew the reality looked nothing like this blond god she’d created. Her mind wandered idly as she clicked her mouse, moving the cursor around. Dark hair. Eyes? Dark? Black? Leaner body?
His hands. She didn’t want to think of his hands, but that was what connected her to him physically. She could remember his touch—every intimate detail. He had very powerful hands; he’d shifted her body on her bed effortlessly. And talented lips and tongue. She remembered those too well.
He’d explored her in the darkness, using first his hands, then his mouth.
While rubbing some kind of lotion on her injury, he’d wickedly lavished it elsewhere, using it to arouse her even more.
She had almost died from pleasure when he’d settled his mouth into her heat, leisurely licking her aching need for what seemed like hours, while he massaged and caressed her body.
Sensitized beyond reason, she’d finally given in to his silent persuasion, responding eagerly to his touch.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” she’d panted out repeatedly, needing and wanting, uncaring about her loss of control. He’d been quite obliging in addressing her demands. Several times.
Helen licked her lips, feeling flushed again. That edgy feeling inside was growing exponentially. She shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. She closed her eyes. She desperately wanted his hands on her again, virtual or not, but he was on a mission, on a ship heading toward Russia...
“Hades,” she whispered.
Water. She smelled the sea, felt the swaying motion under her.
Her jaw dropped as realization dawned. She was remote viewing.
How was it possible when she hadn’t modulated her brainwaves yet?
She didn’t even feel her phantom form shoot through the ether, like she usually did while pinpointing the location.
She turned, taking in the odd-shaped walls and low ceiling.
The smell of the ocean. She had a nasty suspicion about her location.
There were sounds coming from the other side of the wall.
Her heart thudded with anticipation as she moved toward the noise.
Fighting. She cocked her head. Very intense fighting.
She peered around the corner and immediately felt ridiculous.
No one could see her while she was remote viewing; there was no need to be sneaky about looking.
But instinct told her there was danger for her here and she wasn’t going to ignore it, especially when she’d traversed unexpectedly, without preparation. She had somehow sent herself to this place and she’d a feeling that something else was going to happen.
She saw a man lying on the floor. Dying.
She felt the air thickening even as she looked harder, trying to make out the man’s face.
A gurgle of pain escaped from him and then...
nothing. She wanted to turn away from death, but felt compelled to keep looking.
Where was the other fighter? She couldn’t see him.
The atmosphere felt oddly smoky, although she couldn’t smell any smoke.
She could make out the outline of a man as he turned toward her.
Even her vision got cloudy, and she blinked hard, trying to focus.
Must. Try. To. See. She took a step forward.
Hard to breathe, as if the air was very thick here.
All of a sudden, her heart started to beat erratically. Something was definitely wrong. But she so wanted to get closer, to see this man...
Okay, calm down, Hell. Step back. Step away.
At the last second, Helen turned and ran. She felt herself sinking, falling into oblivion, but not before she caught a glimpse of the other man.
Silver eyes. Blue jeans.
Oh God. Not him!
IT ALWAYS CAME TO THIS. Jed McNeil had no illusions about his role as Number Nine in the Covert Subversive (COS) commando unit.
Governments declared war—open and covert—and technology provided the instant highway, but no matter how precise artificial Intel had become, with its laser accuracy, its ability to be in places no human ear or eye could gather Intel, and its useful function of keeping danger away from operatives, there was always the one element not factored into the formula: Human beings were unpredictable, and sometimes, it was much easier to just send one man in after another.
His target was quick, making the first move, going for his throat. Jed leaped out of the way, at the same time swinging his knife upwards. The other man jumped back, wincing at the first slice of his flesh. Startled wariness entered his eyes before he gave a grim smile and resumed attacking.
There was a certain look in a man’s eyes when he knew his time was up.
Jack Cummings hadn’t shown any surprise when Jed appeared, knife in hand. A small nod of acknowledgment. A token, although fierce, resistance.
Cummings had some martial arts training and the hand-to-hand became a short silent dance of death, with swift punches and kicks, which Jed evaded and countered with equally lethal speed.
His opponent was quick on his feet too, moving hard and fast as he jerked back and forth, looking to get Jed off-balance.
He suddenly lunged forward, fist punching out forcefully.
Jed deflected the jab to his solar plexus, twisting Cummings’ wrist and locking it outward.
He twirled his knife into position, intending to give the final lethal blow, but the other man immediately coiled his frame around Jed’s body, his other hand going for the throat.
To avoid having his neck broken, Jed elbowed the ribs and rotated sideways.
He rammed a fist into Cummings’ face. Another.
Then silently advanced toward the man who was holding the bloodied side of his face.
From his expression, the CIA rogue appeared to know that he wouldn’t make it, even if he’d managed to scream for help, and to his credit, he hadn’t. He’d seemingly been expecting someone to come after him.
Never underestimate a desperate man gambling with his life.
Jed anticipated the sudden roundhouse kick, springing into a back flip.
But not before he saw the flash of steel on the tip of the shoe that had barely missed his throat.
Landing on his feet, he flicked his wrist and released the knife in his hand.
His steel hit the mark. And it was over.
Jed slipped his bloody knife into the sheath on the back of his belt. He tapped on the tiny unit attached near the buckle, which was equipped with a GPS and coded satellite transmitter, signaling that he’d just completed his mission. He looked down at Jack Cummings’ body for a moment.
To him, there was one simple truth about warfare.
All the technology in the world couldn’t equal hand-to-hand combat.
He had seen violence from every possible angle since he was sixteen—as a street thug, an IRA lookout, a CIA trainee, an Airborne Ranger in the Army, time with the Green Berets, a covert Special Forces commando, and a few undercover stints that had him working for his enemies.
It was a long resume, years spent in wars created by governments, some more secret than others.
It wasn’t something he boasted or talked about, as some warriors did, comparing their adventures at one war-torn place or another, mainly because he’d seen enough in his job to learn to respect silence. Especially about death.